


Sasha Plays Your Beautiful House...With You! OR The Gang Plays Good Society

by Lasgalendil



Category: Good Society (Game), Jane Austen - Fandom, TTRPG - Fandom
Genre: 404 gender not found, Crack, Enemies to Lovers, Frank x 2 electric boogaloo, Friends to Lovers, Hijinks, Jonny gives the gays everything we want, MacGuffin & Co., Misunderstandings, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Romantic Comedy, Standard Austen Stuff, TTRPG, Twitch stream, Unrequited Love, a certain kind of culture, balls, enemies to butlers, honk, jechnical difficulties, jort manteau, jostling for a spouse, maths - Freeform, no beta we die like archive assistants, one-sided Pappardelle Balustrade/Arabella Cantor, past William Brick/Sir Quentin "Quenty" Balustrade, wasparella
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: It is a truth universally recognized that chat must be in want of a wife.
Relationships: Arabella Cantor & William Brick, Arabella Cantor/Jasper (Good Society), Arabella Cantor/Jasper (Good Society)/William Brick, Jasper (Good Society) & William Brick, Jasper (Good Society)/William Brick
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jonny Sims as A Professional Streamer
> 
> Sasha Sienna as The Facilitator
> 
> Frank Voss as Old News/Best Friend
> 
> Helen Rosamund as The Great British Bake-Off
> 
> Jessica_Crimes as A Menace to Society
> 
> pirategf as A Gem of A Mod Who Can Copy/Paste
> 
> The Feral, Feral Chat as Muffins
> 
> And
> 
> Ambassador Cat, as himself

It is a truth universally recognized that ~~Dungeons and Dragons can get a little bit wrecked~~ a young person, recently having acquired a large sum of money—and a peerage, no less—must be in want of a wife.

…Or a husband. Spouse. Gender is dead and chat killed it.

And it is upon this bedrock of society that we build our foundation: For Jaspar, our hero/ine, has inherited a Barony from a distant relation, and as such, has found themself unexpectedly wealthy and yet unmarried, and with a peerage, no less. They are, in short, pursued by a litany of suitors, who they’re beginning to suspect might be solely after their new baronyship and not, in fact, their heart nor hand.

We find Jasper hiding in the parlour of their large London estate, peering through the windows in fear of their many, many horny suitors when they receive a missive from a dear friend and scoundrel, Bill Brick. The letter reads thus:

To Whom It May Concern,

What Mod Box upgrade should we ask Sasha and Jonny for next?

More or fewer legs on the spidery guys, either would be an improvement

More of those cool knuckle bones for crafts

One [1] extra air hole

Fewer wall teeth

A thorough de-clowning

Less turbulence

PS: scalp fungus

Which Jasper naturally takes to mean,

“My dear fellow,

Through extraordinary circumstance you have come into a peerage and I into my fortune! Let us celebrate this fortuitous time together as a large income is the best recipe for happiness I have ever heard of.

Let us retire at once to the countryside and let rooms and renew our acquaintance.

Your friend,

William Brick.”

For Bill—or William, as he has herein so styled himself—Brick had no doubt decided upon coming into his fortune that he should make haste to turn this new money into _old_ money both through the purchase of an estate, and through matrimony with a family of respectable name and even more considerable income. For their friend has always thought himself worthy of wealth and importance, and has for some time carried about a chip on his shoulder. Jasper, however, is out of their depth, and retiring to the countryside with a trusted confidante sounds very pleasant indeed.

Yet what our dear hero/ine cannot know is that retiring to the countryside to renew their own acquaintance is but one of William Brick’s many machinations: There is another acquaintance he is keen to rekindle, and that with Sir Quentin Balustrade, a 24 year-old arsehole, young hedonist, and drunken wastrel himself with a peerage, and, moreover (and how scandalously so!), with whom he shares a secret engagement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sasha's best Lemony Snicket voice: And what, you might ask, is a peerage? A peerage, in this case, could mean a collection of fancy nobles. It could also mean that you are officially aristocracy, you’ve been given, often, kinda of like, way back when, your family would have been given like land and money and stuff but in general by the Regency in general it was pretty much just a title. Or, it is, broadly speaking, how British society made sure that money, power, and land were amalgamated into the hands of the aristocracy and didn't end up getting in any way diluted or spread around (Or, put more simply, capitalism with fun names.).


	2. Chapter 2

It is a lovely day in the village, and Sir Quentin Balustrade is a horrible goose. He is, at this moment, having not learned from experience—nor indeed engagement—past, scheming to elevate the career of a certain Captain Arabella Cantor so that his family might approve of their matrimony. His is not an endeavor to be taken lightly: He faces not only the scrutiny of his peers and the unwitting obliviousness of the charming Captain in question, but also the near constant presence of his mother, the esteemed and self-serving Lady Pappardelle Balustrade.

We find them thus, in the drawing room: Lady Pappardelle being attended by her lady-in-waiting, Sir Quentin posed theatrically before the window as to best accentuate his features for Captain Arabella’s watercolours, and finally, the unknowing artist herself, diligently painting a splendid still life of the vase and flowers beside to her would-be-subject.

“I’m in favor of going on a perambulation around the park, and bumping into people.” Sir Quentin says loudly. Which is to say, extending an invitation of a romantic stroll.

“Oh, yeah. It’s lovely weather.” The Captain agrees, using a fan brush to capture light on the silk tablecloth, as elegant as she is oblivious (which is to say, very). “Let’s go and have a look.”

They are, however, interrupted post-haste, for Lady Pappardelle Balustrade is a lady of decorum, and always chaperoned, all the time, anytime two people under the age of forty got together—especially her rakish son. “And who would be perambulating?”

Sir Quentin senses the danger of having the outing ruined by his mother. “Everyone!”

“Yeah,” Captain Cantor agrees. “We’ll all peramble.”

“Everyone perambulating?!” Lady Pappardelle fans herself. “ Why, that would be a scandal! What would the neighbors think?”

“Of fresh air?” the Captain blinks.

Sir Quentin casts himself onto the chaise lounge in despair. “Mum, do you even know what perambulating _is_.”

“I know what they called it in my time!”

“It’s a _walk_ , mum.”

“Oh. Well.” She sniffed. “And why are the two of you perambulating together?”

“Because I’m your guest?” Captain Arabella provides in earnest. “It’s just good hospitality, I assume." By which she means she is indeed their guest, and grateful to her host and hostess, and which Sir Quentin takes to mean, ‘I understand your cunning plan and agree. I am yours, most ardently, and cannot wait to shower you with the fruits of my affection.’ You can see how this might create some confusion.

“What? My son? A disgrace! He should stop drinking his life away with the _lower classes_.” Sniffs Lady Balustrade, as though even now she might detect a whiff of the necessitous masses at the door. “And should take me to more balls. I’d like to go to a ball. And have a dance.”

“You’ll embarrass me, mum.”

“I will not embar—I am a lady of the—I’m a peer! Are you suggesting that I could possibly—“

“Lady Pappardelle is above reproach, surely!” agrees the Lady’s lady-in-waiting, who, contrary to her position and title, is never _waiting_ and always _harried_.

“Yes. Absolutely. Absolutely!”

“Her ladyship, yes.” Sir Quentin concedes. “Her dog, however…”

“And what’s wrong with my dog?”

“His name is _Napolean,_ mum. It’s a bit awkward—“

“At the time was a politically neutral name!” Lady Pappardelle defends herself, clutching at the floof in question. “But these days, you know, it’s ah, well. Rather frowned upon.”

“I was going to look up what was Napolean’s first name, but Napolean is his first name,” sighs her lady-not-waiting-but-working-diligently-and-hopelessly. “But we can’t call the dog Bonaparte, either.”

“He does like bones! Or, a part of bones. The marrow, specifically. 'This is my dog, Bone Potato.' How is that any better?”

Sir Quentin scoffs. “I’m sorry, this is my Regency peer’s dog, _Napolean_ —?”

“Okay, okay, what would a Regency dog actually be called?” Lady Pappardelle insists.

“Literally anything but Napolean! Just pick a food stuff.”

“Fine! Wellington, then.”

And so a perambulation with the dapper Captain Cantor, chaperoned closely by the flustered Lady Pappardelle and the newly named Wellington, is thus decided. Sir Quentin’s plans to woo and wed the unwitting Captain are now one step closer to fruition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sasha's best Lemony Snicket voice: Goose, in this case, can refer to an excessively stupid, foolish person. Goose may also refer to a class of contemptuous and belligerent waterfowl. Or, having familiarity with both this channel and this chat: both.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *a sudden, distant HONK*  
> William Brick: I say, what is that racket?  
> Jasper: The aviary, I believe.  
> William Brick: That, or we’re streaming a TTRPG and all our viewers are geese.  
> Jasper: What?  
> William Brick: What?

Let it suffice to say Jasper has arrived in the village in their barouche, and—having successfully avoided their many suitors—let a suite at the Village Inn (or the Regency equivalent thereof). So it is here we find them entertaining their old friend, William Brick.

“Well, then, are you quite comfortable?

“I could use a little more rosé,” says William, who is, it must be stated, still clutching the wine bottle.

“You _have_ the wine.”

“Oh, indeed! I do have the wine!” he raises his glass in a toast. “Well then, what the fuck have you been up to, hmm?”

Jasper flinches. “I don’t think you can swear in this story.”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow. It’s AO3. I’ll swear all I want to, damnit.”

“Can we?” They press. “Are we _sure_ this time?”

“I checked with the mods and technically, yes,” William breaks fourth wall not for the first time, and certainly not for the last! “It _is_ an M rated stream, after all.”

“Yes, yes, indeed,” Jasper frets, “but if the fic itself is M it would mean we couldn’t link to it on the discord.”

“Ah,” sighs William. “More’s the pity. Well, what the hell have you been up to, then?”

“Mostly running. Running and hiding,” they lament. “Getting good at that.”

“Hiding? Whomever from? Ought I to be jealous?" Their friend asks eagerly. "Have you been committing crimes and been on the run from the Crown without me?”

“Oh, no, nothing so exciting. Turns out when you inherit a peerage, you get a bunch of suitors.” Jasper grimaces, sneaking a glance through the curtains for their admiring public. “Can’t have any peace, night or day, and you can’t really be _rude_ to them, either, what with etiquette and all. No one warns you about that.”

“I say, it’s not entirely unfortunate.” William frowns. “It'll add to your income, surely? And think of all the connections you'd make!"

“Nah,” Jasper sighs. “Always fancied marrying for love.”

At this, William Brick stands and paces the room feverishly, his energy matched only by their own growing alarm. “Oh, well, speaking of which, I must confess I have been neither entirely honest nor entirely dishonest regarding my true intentions inviting you here.”

“Oh?” And this, dear reader and avid shipper, is presumably where the story would end: with a proposal, an acceptance, and a marriage of convenience and even true love between two well-matched, close friends were it not that it is, in fact, a romantic comedy. Both a romance _and_ a comedy. That is not to say it is a corpse farce—at least, not yet; we still have another week of streaming and Sasha as The Facilitator which may see to that. For now, at least, let us then treat with the first of many, many merry misunderstandings on the road to matrimony.

“Yes, I’ve recently learned the Balustrades are to summer here.” Wiliam rushes. “Now that I’ve a fortune, I must buy an estate, and use it to rekindle my relationship with Quenty—you remember Quenty? Sir Quentin Balustrade? My er, ‘good friend’ from Cambridge.”

“Oh, yes.” Jasper allows. “Your ‘good friend.’”

“Oh, come now, old chap. Don’t look so glum. There’ll still be plenty of time to catchup!” William cajoles. “It will be our grandest con yet! And who else could I depend on for both discretion and assistance?”

Jasper is silent for some time. “It will be your most audacious yet. But I must warn you, if you are rejected, or, worse, _discovered_ —“

“If I am found out, my marriage to Quenty is the least of my concerns.” William says shortly. “But nothing gained, nothing earned, I suppose. The things we do for love!”

“Yes. I suppose.” Jasper repeats, for experience has been a dutiful teacher. They have known Bill Barr since childhood, and his stubborn alacrity has bolstered them through both scarcity and plenty. Once their friend has set his mind to something, there is neither man nor god—and certainly no appeal to reason—which could dissuade him. If William wishes to procure an estate, wow the gentry, and woo Sir Quentin under the guise of a gentleman merchant, well. There is nothing for it. “And how shall you arrange it?”

“Excellent!” William pours them both another round of wine. “Oh, well, to be honest, I haven’t the slightest idea. We were always better together with that sort of thing.”

“You must learn your manners and mind them.” Jasper cautions. “To start with, we want a social situation where you would both be present. Ideas would be balls, picnics—“

“Not all of the ideas would be balls,” William counters. “Some of them could be quite good, actually.”

Jasper can only ignore this quip—to acknowledge a pun is to give it power. No, the whole business is best forgotten entirely. “Any social engagement, really.”

“I know!” William jumps to his feet in excitement. “A walk!”

“Does that mean you will have called on Sir Quentin and proposed a walk?” Jasper frowns, with the dread knowledge of his friend’s thought process. “Or that you will simply find Sir Quentin, and happen upon him while _Sir Quentin_ is on a walk?”

“Oh, you know me, I’m a meddler,” William says, and sniffs. “I’ll definitely watch Sir Quentin for a while to ascertain what time he’ll be in the park, and I’ll come up and say,’ oh, I’m not interrupting, am I?’”

”Yeah, that’s not what meddling means.” Jasper reminds him. “That’s called stalking. And most inappropriate—I will caution you again: you must learn your manners and mind them.”

“Oh, very well,” William breathes a sigh worthy of the stage and bows. “If you’re going to rule out following his movements myself, I’ll gossip, see? I’ll _learn_ when Quenty is likely to be around the park and duly chaperoned then I’ll _happen_ to be taking some fresh air at the same time.”

“And what will you say? How will this time go any differently?”

“Oh, well, it’s quite simple, you see: This time I’m wealthy.”

“And what will you tell him?”

At this William is—both blessedly and more incriminatingly—silent.

“I thought as much.”

“Oh, various small endeavors, forgery, you remember,” William shrugs. “I’ve gotten quite adept.”

“Yes, I remember. But you must construct a narrative to impress upon our peers both bold enough to make you an enticing prospect, yet with so much believable mediocrity it leaves no one questioning.”

“Well, I started a very…factories aren’t a thing yet are they—what’s a trade you might get?”

Jasper shakes their head. “My dear fellow, you’re 27, so it’s much more likely it was your parents who got wealthy and died and you inherited your wealth.”

”So, I got wealthy because my merchant parents were very successful in the, er…scarf trade.”

“The…er, scarf trade?” Jasper broaches the subject with delicacy. “So specific? Not, I dunno, fabric or textiles?”

“No, not ‘fabric or textiles’.” William scoffs. “How pedestrian! Only scarves.”

Jasper, although a timid, nervous being by nature, cannot help themselves at this juncture. “Why not become a brick manufacturer?”

“Because I’m not a hack!” William insists. “It’s certainly more believable than a wealthy distant relation dying suddenly and bequeathing you a baronage.” At this he sips his wine pointedly.

“Perhaps. But as the last chapter established, there _is_ a dreadful war on. Wealthy distant relations die all the time.”

“Dreadful? The French are rubbish.” William argues. “They couldn’t even keep Canada!”

“I don’t believe that’s happened yet, has it?” It is difficult when one’s actor isn’t constrained to a monodirectional time stream—and how lucky our protagonist to have so close a companion who also carries this burden! And with whom they share a childhood of poverty and overcoming adversity, and a long and storied friendship being now the only two who know the truth of each other’s past…it’s almost as if Jonny and Frank want us to ship their characters or something (But here I digress.).

“No, no, dear chap,” William corrects them. “They ceded the territories with the Treaty of Paris. It’s currently Upper and Lower Canada—the Canadas—and won’t be the British Providence of Canada until 1841; but they’ve quite lost Canada.”

“As if it was ever _theirs_ to begin with,” they say glumly.

“Oh, quite. I’m sure the whole colonialism ordeal will have become quite mortifying two or three hundred years in the future ago.” William agrees. “They’ll be keen to have forgotten all about it.”

“Though I do rather hope they don’t attempt to expurgate centuries of genocide from the education system then get enraged when the public destroys statues of human traffickers due to ‘erasing history.’” Jasper sighs, staring directly into the camera like they’re on The Office.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that. It’s the _Americans_ you’ll want to watch out for,” William consoles. “Well, them and the Tories.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bastard Cops, JK Rowling, Austen Fandom, Brexit voters, and the US: let’s glorify colonialism, misogyny, queerphobia, and racism!
> 
> Sasha: *wearing an ACAB tiara and smashing a pineapple* Gender is a social construct so we're going to play how we want to, thanks. You get a gender(if you want one!)! And YOU get all the gender(if you want them)! And you get some gender(or tea if gender isn't for you!)! And you--


	4. Chapter 4

The sun is shining, the breeze is cool, the mandatory laptop charger has been acquired; it has all the makings of a beautiful summer day and even semi-professional Twitch stream, perfect for a romantic outing. Sir Quentin Balustrade and Captain Arabella Cantor are taking a lovely walk in the village while his mother, Lady Pappardelle, accompanies them as their chaperone. We join the couple and see how Sir Quentin attempts to flirt in this ever-present, watchful situation (that is to say, badly).

He adopts a bold stance, gestures to a nearby field maple, and begins his grandiose endeavor: “Ah, the green leaves of the oak tree remind me of the colour of your eyes, my dear Captain.”

“Oh, that’s a, um, an interesting thing to say.” Captain Arabella blinks. “My eyes are brown, Sir Balustrade.”

At this Sir Quentin is quite taken aback. “Are they?”

“What a nonsense thing to say, Quentin!” Lady Pappardelle scolds him. “Honestly, brown--green eyes—ridiculous! Ridiculous.” In her arms, Wellington barks his agreement.

“The um, flowers are quite lovely for this time of year, though, aren’t they.” Captain Cantor offers, for want of something to say.

“Ah, yes, if I could—if I could compare you to the mighty, um,” Sir Quentin casts about, eyes landing on a nearby flower, “daffodil—“

“Not a daffodil, Quentin, that’s a tulip!” Lady Pappardelle insists.

“The mighty daffodil,” repeats Captain Arabella, now thoroughly bemused.

But Sir Quentin is not so easily put off from his intention, and what is a small blow to one’s pride when it comes to love? “But it stands up tall, and turns its face to the sun, reflecting its beauty." He gestures towards the sun.

She frowns. “You mean a _sunflower_ —?”

“Er, yes,” he agrees hastily. “I suppose sunflowers do as well.”

“Sunflowers are very tall, sometimes.” Captain Cantor shrugs.

“Yes—do you, do you admire sunflowers?”

“I’m…not really one for flowers.” Captain Arabella shakes her head. “They’re very pretty, I do enjoy them, but I don’t think about them. Much?”

“Ah, well, then, tell me of your ideal bouquet.”

“Flowers, I suppose.” Captain Cantor allows. “Nice flowers. Uh, How about you, Sir Balustrade?”

“You know parliament has almost decided to make it a _crime_ to bore a peer of the realm this much,” sniffs Lady Balustrade. “I say, this is the worst walk I’ve taken in some time!”

Sir Quentin wheels in frustration. “Well, what kind of flowers are _you_ interested in?”

And so it is at this very moment—“Oh, I’m sorry, you’ve had me as a mother for 24 years and you don’t even know what sort of flowers I like?” Lady Pappardelle interrupts both her son _and_ the narrator in her disdain. “Well. Well!”

“The house is covered in flowers, mama!” Sir Quentin argues.

“I like orchids,” she sniffs, as Captain Arabella can only look on her hosts in bewilderment. “If you ever cared to ask!”

Yet unbeknowst to them all (save perhaps, Wellington, who is, in fact, a dog, yet remains most unhelpfully quiet on the subject), William Brick waits around the corner, listening in on their every word.


End file.
